Pray
by impavid fool
Summary: Love was hers to hold at the most inopportune moment. [Steve/Natasha]
1. I

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Pray  
><strong>1.<strong>

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'How old are you now?'

For a moment, he forgets. He's lived too long. His mind can no longer keep up with his body. Steven Rogers is tired. He is exhausted and no amount of sleep can cure him.

They offered him drugs.

Antidepressants.

It's just life. It's age. It's natural, and Steve has been spoilt with many years. Now, waking up is a challenge. Opening his eyes and embracing the morning is near close to impossible. He was naïve. To begin with, he was naïve. Because, surely, a meddled life can't _last_. Frozen for decades, imprisoned in ice; his body didn't mature, his heart didn't give out.

But his mind aged alone.

Of course it was slow. This want for death, for a final release, was a gradual process.

However it happened. It happened. As each day passed, he found less point to breathe, less of a desire to leave the house. He can walk, his legs work; he's still fit. He still looks no younger than thirty. And, yet, he's _disgusted _at the face in the mirror. This youthful, angelic face. One he would have recognised so long ago.

He doesn't recognise it anymore. It's just a face.

A ghost of what once was.

Who knew _SHIELD_ employes therapists for its agents? What sort of agent has so little pride they are willing to discuss their mental health with a complete stranger? Steve can imagine the reactions of the other Avengers. Tony Stark's grin. He can't help but wonder if Tony finds his "disability" entertaining? As for Thor and Bruce, Steve can't quite imagine.

Maybe they're sympathetic?

Maybe.

Steve is the first to go.

The first to leave the Avengers. He's the first disappointment.

So, maybe they see him as that: a disappointment. An old man. A tired, old man who is _incapable_ of adjusting to this strange "modern" era. It's not about the technology. Touch screens, iPhones, laptops, whacky cars –– they don't bother Steve. Not really. It's something far more subtle. More internal about this society which he cannot relate to.

'Captain?'

Good Christ. He's still being referred to by his codename.

'Old enough.' Steve tries to smile. His therapist tries to smile as well. It's not funny, though. Not anymore. 'I'm one hundred and fifteen in two months.'

Rain patters against the window.

_Taps_.

_taptaptaptap_

'And you've made your age a problem? Why's that?'

Clearly this therapist is new.

Tell us, Steve: why do you feel old? Try and find _reason_ in your irrational thoughts. Contradict the issue leaking in your head. Why do you feel _alone_ in this world? Why can you not relate to anybody? Why do you still kind of hope the door to your apartment will open, and Peggy will step through? A coffee in hand, her scarlet lipstick matching that sweet, outrageous hat she wore to work.

Just for fun.

Just to mock what is expected of her.

Why are the mornings suddenly cold?

The therapist waits for an answer, even though there is none. Steve leans back in his seat. It's as if tiny pieces of his humanity are slipping away. Of his character, _of who he is_. _Who he was_. Stolen with each loss. Peggy passed far too soon. Steve never got round to saying good bye. Bucky was next. His death... Steve can't accept it still. His death was _bizarre_. He was alive one minute, the next he wasn't. Suddenly, the love of his life sleeps, his body decaying deep underground.

Doctors say it was a heart condition.

Steve knows the truth. The constant brainwashing, the neglect of his sore head –– no creature can withstand the strain.

'I'm trying to help you, Captain.'

'I think–– if we tried again tomorrow?'

The therapist sighs. He feels as if he's let Steve down.

He's young. Twenty something. Too young to be working with monsters.

'Try and rest. I'll make sure you're given your favourite dinner tonight.'

Steve has to smile. Has to shake his hand, and thank him.

The door shuts.

He's alone. Counting every forced breath.

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The window is open.

Which is odd. Because Steve is certain he closed it before going to bed. He lies on his side, his senses suddenly alert. A silent wind caresses through his hair. A shiver shoots up his spine. It's the first time in years he's felt vulnerable.

It's a good sensation.

One he's thirsty for.

(There is somebody else in the room.)

Steve has no weapons on him. Not that he requires any. Physical strength is his sword.

Yet the intruder hasn't moved. Steve rolls onto his back, turns to the window. A dark silhouette sits on the window ledge. His eyes follow the figure's outline: the curve at its hip, how one leg dangles off the edge, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he recognises the length of its hair. Her hair. Her. This catches him by surprise. Her hair is longer than he remembers. Past her shoulders.

'I love your iddy biddy pyjamas.'

Steve isn't too pleased Natasha Romanoff has caught him in his blue, aeroplane nightwear. But they were a gift from Sam. And he likes them.

It's one of very few things he likes.

'Usually people knock the door.'

'Yeah.' Natasha shrugs. 'Those people are boring.'

He doesn't know if he's happy to see her. She hasn't been in communication with him ever since he left the Avengers. In fact, as far as he's concerned, she's avoided him at all costs. As soon as gossip spread about Steve's "illness", Natasha vanished.

For the first few years, he understood. Natasha is a complex woman. She probably doesn't know what to do. A close friend is struggling, struggling _with his own mind_. He's dying. He's finally dying, and it is completely out of her hands.

The only rational course of action is to flee.

After five years, though, Steve begins to think her escape as a betrayal.

But Steve is kind. Steve is wonderful, and he can't be angry with her. Because he gets it. He really _gets it_. 'Look, if you're going to stay, could you at least close the window? You're letting all the heat out.'

'I thought some fresh air would do you good.'

He doesn't like what she's implying.

There's a pause, and then Natasha elegantly slips off the window sill, onto the floor. Before obnoxiously slamming the window shut.

Steve isn't amused.

'What do you want?'

Natasha is light on her feet. She drags over a chair, sits by him.

'Rumour has it you've been blue.'

'Right.' Steve chuckles.

Natasha cocks her head to the side. 'And how does that make you _feel_, Rogers?' She's mocking him. She's impersonating his therapist _and she is making fun of his condition_. Neither of them laugh. Neither of them smile. Neither of them find this very funny.

She doesn't understand.

Doesn't _want_ to understand.

Giving in, as far as she's concerned, is the coward's way out.

'You're wasting your time,' Steve says softly.

Natasha doesn't move.

'Fine.' He's not angry. He's tired. 'It makes me feel weak.'

How he wishes he could see her face. Her expression. If she has one. It's too dark. But he can _feel_ her eyes on him. Her judgement. She's a master at controlling her thoughts, her emotions; she's disturbing at how well she can maintain such fierce stoicism.

Ironically, when he can't see her, he is able to observe every tiny emotion slipping through.

Anger is the first.

'Lazing around will do that to you.'

'You think it's laziness?'

'I think it's many things.'

'Illuminate me.'

She doesn't.

Steve sighs. Now he does want her to go. This is humiliating. Natasha is one of few people he trusts and, right now, she seems to hate his guts. The words tumble from his lips before he has time to register them: 'I hate you seeing me this way.'

They fall into silence.

After ten minutes, he wants to ask why she's still here. If she is just being cruel.  
>After fifteen minutes, he realises she's here because she wants to be.<br>After sixteen minutes, he knows she's here because she wants to be with him.

She _needs_ him.

'What happened?'

Natasha is able to act. She tries to play another woman.

One who doesn't feel.

'They found his body.'

'Whose?'

They watch each other in darkness.

Steve's heart misses a beat.

His palms begin to sweat.

_They found **his** body._

'When...? How...?'

Natasha stands abruptly. Grabs the chair and drags it away. She leans it against the wall, is still for a moment longer.

'Suicide. Apparently.'

Even Steve doesn't believe that.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

The act collapses. Natasha needs to catch her breath. She exhales deeply. It's a pathetic attempt to erase the image of Clint's corpse in her head. She doesn't recognise him as a corpse; she probably never will. _Oh, she's so sick of this_. Sick of him, sick of his constant vanishing, sick of his love, sick of him _dying_. Steve winces, twiddles his thumbs.

'I'm sorry.'

Natasha steps forward. Doesn't watch him. Her focus is on the window. 'I'm not.'

She hasn't left.

There's a reason why.

'Do you want to stay?'

Finally, she manages to pry her eyes away from the window; look at him.

And his heart shatters.

The very little life Natasha expressed has been _ripped_ from her. Her eyes are _dead_, but blinded by tears, desperate to break free. She's more of a ghost than he is. They are tortured warriors with nothing left to show but dented armour and wrecked sanity.

It's all gone.

Just everything–– _gone_.

Rotting entities waiting to be dragged back down to Hell.

'No.'

'I think you should stay.'

'I think––' Her voice breaks. Her defences are down. And she can't recover. Natasha has been compromised. Suddenly, she's trembling and she's small and fragile and _human_. Her wrist is pressed against her mouth, back arched a little forwards, and his death is a split through her body.

Her mind _screams_ out for him.

Begging.

_Don't be gone._

Steve finds his feet. Balances himself.

Comes up behind her. Hesitates. She doesn't stir. Then, he does the only thing he can: he holds her.

His arms wrap around her middle, and he leans his head into the back of her shoulder. They mourn in a terrifying silence. And it's like holding a _statue_. Natasha is _frozen_ in his embrace, and he squeezes a little harder, just to tell her, _to tell himself_, that he is there. Just to remind her he still exists; he still exists and he hasn't left her yet.

Her body is cold.

His arms are scalding against her leather outfit.

_Burning._

He remembers what it's like to live. To feel. To love.

'––Get off me, please.'

She's composed.

Steve obeys immediately, but doesn't move away. Natasha peers at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He expects a smart comment, a joke, but her gaze drops to the floor.

'That didn't happen,' she murmurs, more to herself than he. 'But... thanks.'

'For what?' It feels good to smile. To _really_ smile.

'Don't be funny. _Old man_.'

She brushes him off. _Them_ off. She's okay. She's all right. She walks to the window, shoulders back, and she's how he knows her. Natasha opens the window, jumps onto the edge, glances at him. Steve doesn't move. He waits for her to leave.

A thought passes. She squints her eyes at him.

'You don't look half bad in blue.'

He raises his brows. 'Thank you.'

And she disappears in a flash. Through the window, and drops.

Leaving a silent promise to return to him tomorrow.

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**author's note**: This is the first chapter of what I think will be a short story. If you want to contact me, or receive updates on this and other fics I'm writing, then please follow me on Tumblr (writinginpaint). You are welcome to send in writing prompts as well.

I don't have a date for when my story is set, but it's a while after _The Winter Soldier_. Most of this will delve into the rather confusing relationship Steve and Natasha have (at least, _I_ think it's confusing. There's definitely an interesting form of love between them. I refuse to see it as sibling love, but that's just me. Everyone is welcome to different interpretation). I also want to focus on Steve's age and how that effects him (mostly headcanon of course), as well as Natasha's not-so mentally stable lifestyle and history.

Please leave a review! Your feedback is extremely important. If all goes well, I should update soon. Keep in mind I am a full-time student, so my updates will be spontaneous. Thanks for reading. Until next time!

Rating will change to M later on for reasons.


	2. II

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Pray  
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She lied.

And he foolishly waits. He thinks she'll return the next evening, through the window, except this time he'll expect her arrival. Yet the next evening comes. She isn't there. He even leaves the window open, hoping –– _hoping_ –– he won't spend the night alone. It's eleven o'clock. Then midnight. Then, it's two in the morning and he realises he's been a silly man. Natasha rarely tells the truth.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he laughs a little.

The _funny_ doesn't last.

Steve is never angry. He's calm. He's gentle.

The window cracks when he whams it shut.

She's done it again: abandoned him. Because she's scared. Because she's wrapped in a toxic coat of pride. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and she can't face him like this. She's known him as Captain America, ever since he found her as a girl. An agile, smart, brilliant man. Unbeatable in her eyes. She just never really thought his mind would be his last enemy; his only _successful_ nemesis.

That name –– Captain America.

Pah.

Steve can't even say it anymore.

_He's sick of that name._

Gosh. _Fuck_. He really is old. Even his codename is ancient. His uniform has grown dusty. Neglected. He's growing a beard. _Jesus_. He doesn't look good with a beard. His cheeks are rough, lips dry, bags slowly forming beneath his eyes. It's a startling revelation: his body is finally catching up with his head. He's ageing, and he's ageing fast. One day, he'll wake up and won't be able to move his legs, his arms.

He'll be completely immobile, waiting.

Tony visits him. Asks if he heard about Hawkeye. Doesn't waste any time addressing Steve's condition. 'We need you back.' It's the last thing Steve expects to hear. He tries to explain why. He tries to explain how _unmotivated_ he feels, how sick he truly is. Even though Tony can't see the illness, it is definitely there, and it is killing him.

It's a lot to accept, to take in. Tony purses his lips, nods his head.

'I see. Well––' He steps back. 'Oh, by the way. Thought you might want this.' Tony turns, grabs something he left at the door. It's round, wrapped in plain paper. Steve doesn't need to unwrap it to know what it is. 'Felt weird leaving this at the Tower. I have no use for it. Although it does make grand decoration!'

'Thank you.' Steve takes his shield.

'All right. I'll see you around.'

'Hey?'

'Mm?'

'I wanted to ask.' Steve pauses. He's about to ask about Natasha. If she's okay. If Tony may know why she hasn't visited him the past few days. He wants to know how she's taking Clint's death, but something stops him. He doesn't know what it is, but it's heavy. A ton. He stops, and changes his mind. 'Nothing. Forget it.'

Tony approaches the door. Faces him briefly, 'Get rid of that beard. No one's gonna want to hang around with you if you look like you've been dumped on the street.' He winks, flashes his signature grin, and leaves the apartment swiftly.

Later that day, Steve's therapists suggests he buys a diary.

'What do you want me do with it?'

'Anything. Write, obviously. It can be about today, or what happened to you in the past. Anything you want, Captain.'

'I only have to attend a museum to do that.'

His therapist apologises. Yet, despite his lack of self esteem, Steve does find some plausibility in his proposition. So before the shops close, he leaves the apartment –– a rare occasion –– and buys a diary. It's starting to snow. Light flakes. Delicate. Then, in a matter of seconds, it's a blizzard. The flakes turn into tiny knives, and they feel as though they're slicing open his cheeks.

Steve pulls his hood up, dashes back to the flat.

Fortunately it's warmer. He flicks on the light. Strips off his coat and hoody. His boots. His cap.

The diary meets the nightstand. And that's when he feels her presence. Behind him. She's sitting on a chair, fiddling with something on her arm. Either she doesn't know Steve has returned, or she doesn't care. It's probably the latter. Whatever the case, Steve is a little annoyed.

He isn't sure if he's annoyed with _her_, or _himself._

Her because she lied to him. Himself because he cares that she lied to him.

'I was out,' he says.

'It's snowing.'

'I figured.'

He widens his eyes.

Natasha is _covered_ in blood, trickling down her leather outfit, splattered across her cheeks. Her arm _drips_ with the red liquid. Steve winces, sickened at the fact that what she's fiddling with is a huge chunk of flesh torn from her arm. Natasha hisses between her teeth, glances at Steve. 'You got a needle? I need to stitch this up.'

'You need an antiseptic.' Steve steps over. Kneels down, attempts to examine her deep wound, but Natasha edges away. 'You could be infected––'

'I'm fine. I need a needle. And thread.'

'You need to clean your wound––'

'If you don't have a needle and thread, I'll go elsewhere.'

'You're covered in somebody else's blood!'

Both are shocked to hear him raise his voice. Steve _never_ raises his voice. Never at Natasha. They have fought in the past, had disagreements, but he has _never_ yelled at her. Natasha's focus is disturbed. He has interrupted her concentration and she's _displeased_. Their eyes meet, and they _dare_ each other to pounce first, to finish this petty battle they've started.

Steve is the first to back down. Of course.

As soon as he stands, turns away, Natasha's expression softens. For half a second, her expression softens and she's guilty, but she quickly recovers. Emotions just get in her way sometimes, and she has no use for them right now. Steve runs a hand through his hair, approaches the bathroom.

'I'll get you a needle and thread.'

He returns shortly after.

'This won't do the job, Natash––' She snatches the items from his hand. 'What happened to you?'

'Nothing.'

He rolls his eyes.

Notes how she's struggling to push the thread through the loop of the needle. Her hands are trembling. Her body is shaking. She's pale. She's bleeding. _She's in shock._ Natasha swears quietly under her breath, tries again, but the ache in her arm is like pincers to her flesh. It hurts. It really hurts, and she's impatient with her body. Her body is betraying her; she's collapsing and she's failing.

Steve sighs. He has to be persistent.

'Here. Let me.'

Natasha refuses his help. When he tries again, she immediately leaves the chair, briskly walks to the opposite end of the room. She doesn't want him to help her; she needs to do this herself. She's injured, and it's her mistake she has to fix. _Alone_. Steve places his hands on his hips. Watches her.

She can't do it.

And she needs a shower. She needs to be clean.

'Natasha, you're being ridiculous.'

She gives him a look.

'Really. You are.'

'I need a bigger needle.'

'That's the only one I have.'

Exhaling loudly, she drops the needle and the thread. Steve raises his brows. Natasha returns to fiddling with her arm, tries to cover the gaping wound with her hand. She doesn't want him to see. Which is dumb. He's already seen the damage and she has no reason to hide it.

'Fine.'

'Fine?'

Natasha flicks her gaze away. Back at him. 'I need to ask for stitches at the hospital.'

'You can't go in looking like that.'

'Why not?'

She's just being a pain in the backside now. Steve rolls his eyes _yet again_, and gestures her towards the bathroom. 'Come on. You can get clean here. While you're doing that, I'll go to the hospital and ask for stitches.' He pulls on his coat, 'You can stay here. I want you to. Get clean and warm.'

'Okay, mom.'

'I think the words you're looking for are "thank you".' He smiles.

The corner of Natasha's mouth twitches. 'Thanks.'

He waits until she's decided to stay. She's reluctant, but Natasha eventually steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her. Soon, he hears the sound of water pouring. Convinced she isn't going anywhere, Steve is out of the flat again, and heading for the hospital for the desired equipment.

The blood is like a coat of armour on her pale skin. Melts like paint at the touch of hot water. She turns the temperature up; so much so, that the water scalds her. She makes the water sting. Steam rises off her body, and yet she still shudders, holds her body, presses a hand against her arm. Blood circles round the bathtub, down the drain, gone. She goes through the events of today in her head.

_... there must have been more than sixty men there... large fists... masked faces... sharp, glistening knives... heavy guns... bullets... hundreds of bullets... their feet, their boots, kicking her sides... one fist crushing her cheek... one of them keeps screaming too... she's bent back his arms too far, the bone has pierced through his flesh... a knife stabs into her arm, and her skin is torn, blood seeping down her black uniform... drenched in red... red... red in her ledger... how much she wants to wipe it out..._

A muffled groan escapes her lips.

She switches off the shower.

Her arm still bleeds. She grabs a small hand towel, wraps it tightly around her wound. Steve's gown is hanging on the door. She doesn't think twice about stealing it for herself. It's so nice and soft. But it swallows her. At least she's okay. Natasha sniffs, presses the material to her nose, closes her eyes.

Smells of him.

Cologne.

Some strange musky scent.

And almost a metal tinge.

_Coffee._

Huh.

When she opens the door, she's a little disappointed to see Steve has already returned. She wouldn't have minded some privacy; just a moment to collect her thoughts. To adjust. To compose herself again. But she remembers he's her friend, and maybe it's all right to relax. To stop this act.

He looks old.

Bloody awful with that beard.

'I'll stitch your arm.'

She doesn't express any gratitude, but she can't refuse his help again. Steve is stubborn and it's annoying her. He follows her over to the bed, she sits on the edge, he pulls up a chair. Natasha slips her arm out of his gown, and together they carefully peel away the hand towel.

The stench of blood fills the room.

Neither bat an eye.

'This might hurt.'

The needle pierces the edge of her cut. She doesn't even twitch.

'What happened?'

'Oh. Nothing. Boys. You know?'

Steve narrows his brows. 'Boys?'

'That's what you are, right?'

'Boys did this to you?'

'There were a lot of boys. _Men_. And they had knives. And guns. And really big hands.' She grinds her teeth. 'Easy business.'

Afterwards, they don't talk for a while. Steve continues to stitch, and she can feel his breath on her arm. It tickles her. '––Is that why you didn't come and see me?'

She's paralysed.

Steve immediately regrets questioning her motives.

But it's too late. The damage is done.

Natasha stares at the wall. Nothing moves. Not a single limb. She doesn't blink. She probably isn't _breathing_. Steve can't bear watching her. He returns to stitching her arm. They are quiet. Quiet for so long, it drives Steve crazy. He can't believe he asked her that.

Damn it.

Oh, you fool.

'Natasha––'

'They want to bury him.'

Steve looks up at her. 'When?'

'Soon.'

'Who's _they_?'

Natasha blinks. Steve's gaze falls.

_She_ wants to bury Clint.

She's the only person who does; who cares about what happens to his corpse. Or, at least, cares so much she wants him to rest in a proper manner. Blessed and remembered for how she knows him, how she remembers him. Before all of this _fuckery_. Steve realises he's the first person she's told. She's probably been thinking over and over again about what to do with Clint's corpse.

Thinking about him.

His lifeless eyes, cold heart––

'Ow.'

'Sorry.'

He finishes the last stitch. Cuts the thread. Natasha is still while he grabs the bandage, wraps it around her arm. Then, they sit together, and think. Steve has to wash his hands; they're soaked in her blood. Natasha needs to sleep. She's tired.

(Natasha needs to cry.

She needs to mourn.)

It takes him five minutes to wash his hands, his face. Afterwards, he invites her to join him in bed. It takes some convincing but, eventually, she follows suit. They hang their capes and retire.

To just lie. To just be with each other.

Heads against the pillow. Sharing the same quilt.

'Steve?' Her voice is low. Quiet. Lost in the dark.

He rolls over onto his side to look at her. She's staring up at the ceiling. Transfixed. 'Yes?'

'Do you ever think about her?' She swallows. 'That girl in the picture?'

Slapping him would have been less painful.

'Only all the time.'

This reassures her. He watches her chest rise, lower –– a sigh, one of relief.

'You love him.'

It's good. To hear somebody else say it. Because Natasha is sick of wondering, whether what she felt –– feels –– for Clint is genuine or just a fuzzy nonsense. She needed Steve, her best friend, to confirm her feelings, _to help her._ The only problem is that it's just a little too late.

Steve pulls her to him. Natasha presses into his chest, scrunches her eyes shut, clings to his t-shirt.

They don't cry.

They don't speak.

They don't think.

They fall asleep, together. Allow the night to pass.

**.**

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	3. III

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Pray  
><span>**3.**

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The pillow smells of her. A cold, empty space beside him. She must have left in the night. Steve, still half asleep, reaches over and grabs the pillow, dragging it close to his face. Soft and soothing against his skin. Her presence lingers. Sighing through his nose, he pretends to sleep a little more, hiding from the day until it becomes unbearable.

He already misses Natasha. It _pinches_.

Glum, he lets go of the pillow and escapes the bed. Showers, washes his face, inspects himself in the mirror. Running a hand over his cheeks, he frowns, pauses. The beard doesn't suit him. He opens a small cupboard above the sink. Retrieves a razor and shaving foam. The foam feels weird in his palms, and he squeezes his fists, the white cream dripping into the sink. Spreads it around his face, slowly, carefully.

Glides the razor down his cheek. Washes it briefly. Then down his cheek again.

Soon his face is clean. Cheeks smooth. He looks young.

Too young.

Afterwards, Steve dresses. Eats some porridge. Grabs his diary.

The first page is blank.

Inviting.

Steve removes the top of his pen. Sits down. Writes. Gradual, at first. He isn't used to writing diaries, but practice is all he needs. But what to write about? About himself? Steve shakes his head lightly. He doesn't like describing himself, his thoughts, his emotions. How dark and empty the world is to him right now. He can't write about the past; what –– who –– he's lost. He doesn't have the strength to write about Peggy, or Bucky. He doesn't want to write about love.

_Such an infectious disease._

The pen hovers over the paper. He considers writing about Sam, the Avengers, how beautiful the snow is outside, her smile, the fact he can still smell her––

Steve slams the diary shut.

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A suit is neatly folded over the chair. He's back from a long run, sweaty, but not exhausted in the slightest. At least his fitness level hasn't let him down. Steve strips off his t-shirt, approaches the suit. There's a note atop. He recognises the slightly illegible handwriting.

_Funeral at three. Be ready for me to pick you up._  
><em>After all, I'd hate for you to collapse before you get there.<br>_–– _N.R._

He smiles.

It's not necessarily a happy smile.

Obviously it's a private funeral. Steve wonders who will be there. If Natasha has informed many people about Clint. Unlikely. She's too private for her own good. Steve has two hours to get ready. So, he showers again. Dries himself. Takes the suit. It's his size; tailored. She must have figured out his measurements somehow.

The shirt is white, spotless. Tie and jacket are black. He polishes his shoes. Combs his hair. In a matter of minutes, he is ready. Saying good bye to a fellow soldier is nothing new to him, but it's never easier. However, it is not he who is allowed to mourn. Natasha wants him there because he is her stiff upper lip. She needs his focus.

Only he knows the truth, and she trusts him to keep her balanced.

He hears a knock at the door. Multiple, impatient knocks. When he opens the door, he tries to smile at her, offer some form of positivism, but she isn't interested. It's sad how natural she looks wearing black. Her skirt falls over her knees, her black blouse unbuttoned slightly, revealing her collarbone, her neck. He spots a bruise.

The smile drops.

'Ready?'

'Yep.'

Natasha turns to walk away.

'Is there anything I should do?' He asks.

She stops, peers at him over her shoulder. 'Just be my friend.'

He can do that. He can. Steve catches up with her, and they walk out of the flat together. As they near the car, he glances at her, but Natasha is ignoring everything around her. She's trying her best to concentrate, to remain rigid, impregnable. Natasha garbs herself in ice to her almost-lover's funeral, and nobody dares breathe in the same space as her.

The drive is quick. Natasha's lips are sealed.

Steve doesn't ask.

The churchyard is tiny. He doesn't see the three guests until they've parked the car. Natasha's already outside before Steve has even unbuckled his seatbelt. It's snowing again. But, it's gentle snow. Relaxed. White flakes get lost in Natasha's hair, melt on her dark attire. Steve identifies the guests. He's not surprised to see Tony and Bruce. Nick Fury isn't expected, but it feels _right_ to have some form of authority present.

They're mainly here out of respect.

It's a Christian funeral. The priest is kind, doesn't seem to recognise their alter-egos. The coffin starts to drown in snow. There's a small bouquet resting on the wood.

Steve stands beside her. Close enough to make sure she's okay.

He doesn't listen to the priest after several minutes. Instead, he lets his gaze drop, and then he watches Natasha out of the corner of his eye. Her lids are half shut, watching the coffin, expression solid; she looks bored. He knows better. She isn't listening to the priest either. She doesn't care what a stranger has to say about Clint. She has her own memories of him, her own thoughts, and she nurses her broken heart alone.

A prayer is uttered.

Natasha doesn't join in.

The priest departs; the funeral director and a colleague help lower the coffin down.

She moves her head. Stops watching the coffin.

So, Steve watches for her. The wood is now invisible, the snow has settled, and the coffin is lowered, lowered, lowered...

They ask if anybody has anything to say.

Of course Tony makes a comment; praises his good aim, who he is as a person. He's looking past the name "Hawkeye". They are not burying "Hawkeye". They are burying Clint Barton, a man, a really really good friend. They wash away the codename, remember he is just like them. Real, human, and waiting for their inevitable fate.

And, after, Tony adds that he's sorry. Briefly looks at Natasha, but knows better than to let his gaze hold.

He's sorry for her.

The funeral comes to an eventual end. Steve has to sigh in relief.

The four Avengers and Fury speak briefly, and they avoid discussing Steve's condition, the coffin under their feet. Natasha is quiet. Steve talks for her. She doesn't cry, doesn't move, her expression not fractured in any way, and it's disturbing how well she can perform the act of such a cold warrior.

It's snowing hard.

Steve walks with Tony, Bruce and Fury to their car. They shake hands, depart.

Efficient business.

Natasha still hasn't moved.

'We should go,' Steve suggests, walking over. 'You'll get cold.'

'That wouldn't be so bad.' It's the first time she's spoken since she was in his apartment. Her tone doesn't waver; she sounds the same. Blunt. Natasha looks at him. There's redness to her cheeks. 'Let's go then.'

'I'll drive.'

Their eyes meet.

Natasha doesn't object.

Together, they walk back to the car. It's freezing inside. Steve makes a "brr" noise, and turns on the heating. Bobs his knee impatiently. Natasha is still. Stares out of the window. Steve swallows, decides to just not watch her. It hurts to watch her try. To forget. To just _let go_. It fucking hurts to watch his best friend fall apart.

The ignition roars to life.

He reverses out of the driveway. Natasha turns her head to see the hole the coffin has been placed, until the car drives onto the road, and the scene disappears.

Clint is finally out of reach.

She can finally let him go. She can finally breathe, and she can finally move on.

Finally accept that he is not coming back.

'We can do something if you want,' Steve tries. 'Maybe grab a coffee?'

'Oh.'

'So... is that a "yes"?' No response. It's like talking to a wall. 'I don't want to leave you in this state, Natasha. I know you're not big on us hanging out, but––'

'Coffee's fine.'

'Okay.'

The road is long. Cars drive past. Steve isn't in a rush. The wiper blades shove away the snow piling over the glass.

The silence is awful. He has to speak. 'I thought that went really well. Kinda atmospheric.' He doesn't know what he's saying, why he's bothering. Natasha doesn't care. 'I think he'd like how you did this. No fuss. Just simple. It was really good.'

Natasha cocks a brow.

'Are you all right?'

Her focus splits. She blinks.

There's a beat.

Two beats.

'Yes.'

Natasha bursts into tears, and suddenly she's fighting against her body, trembling violently.

'––What.. Natasha?' Steve panics, and instantly drives the car off to the side, slamming down the brake. 'Natasha.' He reaches over, grabs her top, however she's too busy trying to stop crying but she _can't stop crying she just can't stop crying_. Tears puddle into her lap, and she angrily wipes her eyes with her sleeves. 'Shit...'

Steve frantically leaves the car. Runs to her side, opens the door, and brings his arms around her, pressing themselves close, so close she is barely able to breathe. Her body continues to tremble and shake, and she's so _tense_. Her mind and heart are betraying her all at once. She can't process her feelings, she can't discipline her grief, she can't _think_, can't _move_, she can't do _anything. _

Finally, Natasha has collapsed. Defeated.

Steve feels her pull at his jacket roughly, and it's _horrible_ to hear her broken sobs in his ear.

She _clings to him_. She needs him to hold her until this agony passes, until every image of his beautiful, rugged face is out of her head. Until the very _idea_ that he _killed_ himself is forgotten, because she can't... she can't _bare the idea that he killed himself, that he abandoned her, that, despite everything, he left her alone in this godforsaken, twisted world. _After everything, Clint slipped between her fingers and never came home again.

'I got you. I got you,' Steve tightens his embrace. Balances her.

The tears trickle down his suit, like blood.

He scrunches his eyes closed, desperate for her to stop weeping, presses his mouth into the crook of her neck. _Oh, God. Please, please, please, stop crying. Please._

At one point, Natasha stops.

The sobs cease.

Her hand slips from his jacket. She wants him to release her.

Steve moves away, but only slightly. Her cheeks are red, eyes puffy, and a stray tear lingers in her eye, trembling with the urge to fall. He holds her face between his hands, and they both expect him to say something wise and kind. Something Steve would say at a time like this.

Except there has _never_ been a time like this.

He has never witnessed Natasha cry.

It leaves a scar in his mind.

Natasha is done fighting for now. He sees her for all that she is.

Just a woman trying to make do with what very little she has. She is a girl again, lonely and brainwashed and tortured. Lost without any sense of hope. Hurt and hurt constantly. They've forgotten she's human too.

She has been decaying, unnoticed and ignored.

Because they think she's confident. They think she knows everything. They think she's proud. They think she's The Black Widow, fierce and stoic. Terrifying and powerful.

She's Natasha.

And she's his best friend.

'I'm not leaving you.'

Natasha flinches. The last tear tickles her cheek.

They wait for her to heal –– heal as much as she can in such a small period of time –– and Steve is patient.

Eyes warm, they seem to cradle hers, soft and wonderful.

Steve smiles gently.

Yes.

Yes, she's all right.

Inhale. Exhale. Natasha straightens.

'We should go.' And, just like that, she's herself again. Composed. Stoic. _Brilliant._

Steve lingers a moment longer. Nods. 'We should.' Before returning back to his seat.

**.**

**.**

**.**


	4. IV

**.**

**.**

**.**

Pray  
><strong>4.<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

She isn't drinking her coffee. Instead, Natasha idly stirs the beverage with her tea spoon, propped on one elbow. She's looking at Steve, but she's looking _through_ him. As if he's invisible; her focus isn't on him. Actually she doesn't _have a focus_. She looks bored –– again. She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to be around anybody right now. But Steve refuses to leave her.

Not after what he witnessed in the car.

They're not talking about _that_. Natasha is going to pretend like it never happened, and she wants Steve to cooperate. If he doesn't cooperate, she's going to walk away. So he's good and he doesn't mention it, even though he's _dying_ to ask. He _needs_ to know if she's okay. If she wants to stay with him overnight, just to have some company. Because it is _fine_ to feel upset, to mourn over Clint; she's allowed to mourn and he wants her to feel like she can.

But this _is_ Natasha.

It's late. Still snowing. There are two adolescent boys in the café. A little older than eighteen.

Steve instantly knows they are a couple.

'I leave tomorrow.'

He looks at her. 'When?'

'Early.'

'How long for?'

'I don't know.'

That's all she can reveal. Steve wants to think she's not telling him because it's secret. It's business and she simply cannot pass on any information.

Bullshit.

Natasha is quiet. She's always quiet.

Right now, though, her silence is terrifying. And he is on his toes. Waiting for her to break again. Except, this time, he won't be able to console her. He won't be able to hold her until her body gives in. He won't be able to kiss away her tears, tell her over and over _I've got you, I've got you, I've got you_. A lump forms in his throat and he watches her stir her coffee.

She hasn't abandoned him yet and he already misses her.

'Will you be gone long?'

Funny how she's the one who has been torn into tiny pieces. And yet he's the one who needs saving.

An emotion washes over her eyes.

A sudden, brief fracture in her mask.

'What's wrong with you?'

It's about time she asks. The therapist doesn't know anything. He's trying to understand why Steve has turned into this much, much older man. Completely ignoring the fact that he is, indeed, a much, much older man. It's not depression, it's not any form of sadness.

He's just old.  
>Too old for this generation.<p>

He doesn't know how to handle it anymore; how to grasp his sanity.

Steve's mind aged without him, and no mind can last as long as his has.

There is no diagnosis, though.

Just him.

'Nothing,' he lies.

(Steve _never_ lies.)

Natasha stops stirring her drink. Leans back in her chair. Now, she's looking at him. Not _through_ him. _At_ him. Heat rises in his cheeks. She's studying his face. Every line, every freckle, every graze, every twitch. She's searching for answers. _An_ answer.

She wants to help.

But even Steve doesn't know what the problem is, so how can Natasha?

Her gaze falls. She finally sips her coffee. Maybe she can't decipher the problem, maybe she figured it out but won't tell him. Maybe he's paranoid. She places her mug down. Curls her lips. Turns to the window, watches a few cars drive past. They don't speak afterwards. Enjoy the quiet. Neither have anything left to say. It's a quiet which haunts him, a quiet he cannot relax to.

It's a quiet _screaming_ with words.

Natasha's makeup is a little smudged from crying. Cheeks still reddened from the assault. Hair a little messy due to the snowy weather. And there's a small coffee stain in the corner of her mouth. Barely noticeable. Steve blinks, and, then, just like that, he's in love.

A warm, beautiful and _agonising_ love.

She catches him staring. 'What?'

Now it finally makes sense. Steve smiles, shakes his head. 'Nothing.'

It's chilly. He shudders. Buttons up his jacket. Folds his arms. (The temperature is irrelevant.) Natasha pays the coffee, and as she pulls out five dollars, he realises how small her hands are. How straight her posture is when she stands, and when she turns to him, asks if he's coming, he notes the position of her feet. Legs together, feet in a v-shape. It's a specific manner; natural. She's been taught to hold herself this way, stand this way, balance this way.

He's only seen ballerinas do this.

They leave together. As they walk out of the door, Steve realises the couple have left before them.

He drives Natasha back to his place. It's what they both want, and neither have to voice it. They just know. They arrive at his apartment, and by this time, the snow is deeper, the roads slowly becoming invisible by a thick sheet of white. He unlocks the door to his apartment, and she's the first to step inside. He flicks on a light. It's warm. He's left the heating on.

Natasha pulls off her coat, flings it onto a chair. Steve, almost instinctively, takes Natasha's coat and folds it before returning it the chair. It's so _domestic_. Inviting Natasha into his home, allowing her to invade his privacy, folding her clothes which she has casually thrown onto his floor, letting her share the same bed as him. And Natasha has such a funny issue when it comes to sharing a bed.

How did they become like this?

Two friends who do everything together.

He's seen a side to her no one else has before, and she him.

(_It terrifies him that there was once a time in his life when she didn't exist._)

Natasha has gone to the window, opened the curtain to watch the snow fall. Steve approaches the bed and sits on the edge. He thinks about what she said earlier, about leaving tomorrow, and although he is used to Natasha vanishing, he isn't sure he can handle it this time. He's seen just how fragile she can be, and she is not _fit_ to work. At least, that's what he thinks. Or, he probably just cares too much. Natasha will happily _show_ him she is fit to work.

Still.

_Still_.

It doesn't erase the fact her absence will _disturb_ him in a way.

_Jesus. What's happening to me?_

He expects a conversation. He expects work from her. But they're quiet, and it is his voice which eventually cuts through–– 'You have to come back.'

Her eyes flicker over to him. She says nothing.

'Whenever that is.' Steve realises he's said too much. He's let his guard down; surely Natasha knows how he feels. Unlike her, he isn't a very good liar. She hasn't moved, but her eyes are on him. She's listening and she's waiting for him to say it. She _wants_ him to be honest with her, let the truth out, but he can't and he won't. So, instead, he says, 'You _need_ to come back to me.'

Because coming back isn't enough.

Coming back alive isn't enough.

She has to come back to _him_.

(He can't survive the alternative now. It's far too late.)

It requires absolutely no thought. Natasha's hand slips from the curtain and she steps towards him. Steve can't read her expression; he isn't sure if she has one. Natasha presses a hand above his chest, near his shoulder, and then straddles his lap. His heart skips a beat. Her hands run through his hair, he shudders, exhales. Their noses bump together. Eyes meet. A pause, and then she leans down to kiss his cheek, then kiss his neck.

He can't breathe.

And yet, he would happily die here, right now, in her arms.

Steve closes his eyes, leans into her, grazes his hands up and down her back –– soothing, constant, and each time her lips meet his skin, he needs her just a little more.

They hold onto one another. She kisses him. He caresses her aching body.

Remedy whatever little damage they can, until time tears them apart.

**.**

**.**

**.**


	5. V

**.**

**.**

**.**

Pray  
><strong>5.<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

_3/1._

_I dream of falling._

_But I never land. I fall. But I never land._

_I try not to think into the symbolism. If there is one._

_Heck. I know what it's like to fall, and never land._

* * *

><p><em><span>71._

_They call me "Captain". They still call me "Captain". The title has lost all meaning to me. They are fading letters, a rusty word, and I don't know what it means anymore. _

_I miss her._

_All the time. I miss her so much._

* * *

><p><em><span>81._

_She would have brought me coffee. A very, very long time ago. _

_She would have kissed me and wished me a good morning. She would already be dressed, ready for work, always one step ahead. Always prepared. Whereas I, well, I don't think I've ever been prepared for anything. And even if I was given decades, a millennia, to prepare for losing her –– I'd never be prepared. I'd never be ready._

_I'm still not ready._

_I wake up screaming._

_I wake up crying._

_Her name haunts me._

* * *

><p><em><span>141._

_Natasha isn't talking. _

_She's no talker anyway. We usually sit in silence. I'm used to constant chatter, it's nice to be in quiet company. But, this time, her silence hurts. Clint is on her mind –– just always on her mind. And there is nothing I can do. I cannot help her. _

_I just do what I can: I pretend nothing's wrong. That's what she wants._

_I think. I don't know._

* * *

><p><em><span>151._

_I didn't believe it was possible for my heart to break. Again._

_How many times is this now? Four? Five?_

_Today, I let her cry._

_She was fragile. __She was fragile__. I can't–– I still can't associate fragility with her. I don't __want__ to associate that word with somebody so strong and powerful. I let my friend weep, and I felt as if I was betraying her. I let her cover down. _

_But it was real, it was real and she was beautiful. _

_She __felt__. She felt agony, and I was __relieved__. _

_I wasn't alone after all._

_She left me. Too soon. I wait for her to come back to me._

* * *

><p><em><span>171._

_I've started running again._

_I have started running again._

* * *

><p><em><span>181._

_The irony is unforgivable._

_I've fallen, but this time I've landed. I've landed. I've finally landed, and it's her._

_Of course I realise this when she's gone. _

_It's been three days now._

* * *

><p><em><span>201._

_I never worry over a fellow Avenger. Not like this._

_But it's Natasha. She disappears. There's never any knowing when she'll return._

_My therapist is feeling optimistic. He's a kid, but he's a good kid, and he sees potential. Which I think is funny. Potential, eh? I see much more than that. I see a lot more than just potential._

_I see myself healing._

* * *

><p><em><span>281._

_I fought today._

_I don't delve into my battles, let alone write about them._

_But this is a date I want to remember. This is the day I came back. Properly this time. _

_I think she'd be proud of me._

* * *

><p><em><span>43._

_It's been two months since I opened my diary. I apologise, diary, if you took this personally._

_The Avengers Tower is missing two members. We pretend not to notice. It's better that way. Sometimes, I foolishly believe I'll see her walking through the door, throwing a comment my way, and then getting down to work. I imagine her having longer hair –– if she's still out there, she would have grown it. Long, gorgeous red hair which I just cannot get out of my head. Her green eyes –– it's bizarre. I miss them. I miss her eyes, that damn annoying smirk, how soft her cheeks are, her sweet scent, her warmth against me._

_I imagine Natasha coming back._

_My__ Natasha._

_I need her back._

_I leave the window open every night. For her return._

_Someday soon. Possibly._

**.**

**.**

**.**

It's late, and he can't sleep. He pours some warm milk into a mug. Sips, nears the open window and watches somebody cross the street. The moon is bright. Extremely bright, it lights the atmosphere. Steve has always enjoyed a full moon. He raises the mug to his lips.

His Captain America suit hangs on the wall, his shield beneath. A reminder. A reminder he has survived his mind. He survived his mind, and he'll survive again. He smiles. Turns away from his armour. Places the mug of milk down, and is about to grab a book when he hears several knocks at the door.

Another knock. No–– _tapping_. Light tapping.

The visitor is nervous. Shy.

_Guilty_.

Steve knows who it is before he sees her. They face each other, and she looks up at him almost _helplessly_. Her hair is longer, like he assumed, but her face–– _her face is bruised_. Not just by the fists of cruel men, but by sleep, by the abuse she inflicts onto her own body. _She hasn't been taking care of herself, and it shatters him apart_. His grip tightens on the door. He swallows, and, for the first time in months, he is utterly speechless. She has stolen his words.

It took her so, _so long_.

But she came back.

_She came back to him_.

If there's an apology, she doesn't have to voice it. Steve knows. He knows she's sorry she didn't come back sooner, she's sorry she played the coward again and ran away. Frightened and uncertain and confused and wonderfully fragile. And she's sorry she _has_ come back. She's sorry she has the audacity to return to his door, needing him to hold her.

No matter how long it's been, she'll always mourn his death.

Steve knows what that's like.

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

His hand slips from the door.

'Do you–– Have you eaten?'

'No.'

'Are you hungry?'

'... Yeah.'

'Okay.' He nods, steps back. 'Come in, come in.'

She does. She brushes past him, and he smells her familiar sweet scent, and it all comes flooding back like a wave of electricity. Her. She. Natasha. She shoves a hand into her pocket, watches him, almost awkward. Her posture isn't right. She's a little lopsided. She's resting more weight on her right leg. Steve doesn't ask. He doesn't need to ask.

They all have wounds they never speak of.

'What would you like to eat?'

Natasha is mute. Stunned into silence. She blinks, tries to think, but she's exhausted, and she didn't come here to talk. To decide. She came here for safety, for protection, for him. 'I don't care.'

'Well... if I give you something you don't like, you won't eat it.'

'No, Steve, I–– I really don't care.'

He clenches a fist. His heart is pounding. _Oh, God, he has missed her_. 'Fine. I'll make porridge.'

'Okay.'

'You do like porridge, right?'

She rolls her eyes. Playfully. Actually he isn't sure. She just rolls her eyes at him.

They're quiet. Steve walks into the small kitchen, grabs a box of porridge packages, pours the oats into a saucepan, then the milk. Stirs it until it's ready. Natasha enters the kitchen, hand still in her pocket, trying to cover her limp and failing. She watches him stir. It's soothing to watch Steve do something so domestic. She likes to watch her friend play house.

She likes to watch her friend.

She likes to _be_ with her friend.

Friend.

Shit. She doesn't understand what the term _means_ anymore.

Natasha is a few inches apart from him. Steve pours the hot porridge into a bowl. Takes a spoon, and passes over her food. Natasha has enough manners to accept.

She doesn't eat it.

Steve leans against the counter. Natasha stands, bowl of porridge in hand.

'Where did you go?'

They both regret him asking that. Wisely, Natasha doesn't answer. Not directly. 'I've been to many places, Steve. I've done many things,' she sighs. A sigh which whispers her surrender, her need to fall to her knees and never get back up again.

'Oh.' Steve lowers his gaze. Then looks at her again. 'I've done many things too.'

Natasha acknowledges this, but doesn't speak. She turns her attention to the porridge. Stirs it a little. Releases the spoon. It hits the bowl. 'I wasn't supposed to come back. I'm in the middle of a mission.' She mentally curses. She shouldn't reveal such information. 'Your apartment was close, so...'

'I'm glad you came here.'

She's not all right. She's sick.

Steve moves towards her. 'Here. Let me––' He's about to take the bowl from her, but she steps back.

'No, it's––'

'I want you to sleep.'

'I don't want to sleep.'

Her urgency makes him freeze. He looks at her, and he forgets how to breathe. Her eyes are wide, and he sees _everything_. Every tiny emotion scorching through her body, and he can't look away. Natasha isn't hiding herself anymore. Not with him. He sees everything that she is, what an incomplete puzzle she has become, how her mind isn't entirely her own, how she just can't _compute_ what's happening to her––

The bowl meets the floor.

Shatters.

Natasha moans lightly against his lips.

One kiss.

A tight, rough kiss and their respect is destroyed. This gift of friendship they share together is _broken_ the moment he kisses her, and she _wants _him to keep kissing her, keep touching her, _and tell her, tell her, oh, gods, just tell her what's been on his mind all of these months_.

His hands run around to her back, pull at her jacket. She bites his lip, presses her hands to the back of his head, _forces_ his mouth onto hers.

They're frantic. They're stupid. They're _helpless_.

Steve can't think. He can't _think_. He needs her. Wants her. He slams her against the wall, presses to her so _heavily_ she can barely breathe, _their lungs are being crushed_. They kiss, constantly kiss, kiss until their jaws ache, _begging_ for mercy, but these two soldiers are unfamiliar with _mercy_. His lips brush across her cheek, she gasps, arches her back as he kisses her neck, and yet his hands are so _soft and gentle_. He's too scared of hurting her, he doesn't _dare_ leave a mark on her sensitive flesh.

Natasha has lost her grip. Loses all sense of control.

She lets him kiss her body, kiss every scar, every jagged wound, and he tries to pull off her top, but the fabric has to pass their lips, and they _can't pull away, they won't pull away, they don't want to pull away just yet_. Desperate, Natasha helps him remove her top, but neither waste a second to taste each other again. It's so irrational and she doesn't _get_ irrational.

When he touches her naked breasts, she hisses between her teeth, _she's so sore_, and their foreheads rest together. Steve still can't breathe. He still can't think.

But one question manages to escape––

'What are we supposed to do?'

Because Natasha always knows. She always knows what they're supposed to do. She always has a plan B. She's always one step ahead of him. She's the smart one.

He starts to tremble. She starts to shiver.

'... I don't know...'

Steve finds her hand. Squeezes.

_They don't know what they're supposed to do._

She kisses him this time. _She needs his body on hers. She needs him to kiss her again. She doesn't want another second apart. She can't survive another second apart from him._ A newfound sense of urgency raptures them both, and Steve shrugs out of his pyjamas, holds her face between his hands, kisses her, and they tumble to the cold floor, knees bumping, hands fumbling. She arches her hips into his trembling palms, until her breasts are against his chest, and she finally, _finally_, finds balance.

For a moment, they are still.

They revel in the horrifying yet exhilarating feeling of their bodies pressed close without any spaces between them. They are _overwhelmed_. Steve exhales. His lungs _wail_ in relief. Natasha's hands slide up his arms, hold his shoulders _just_ _in case he's cruel enough to move away and abandon her_, but, he thinks, how _foolish_ she must be to believe he'd ever have the _thought_. She breathes across his skin, leans up to leave barely a _kiss_ on his lips. He moves into her warmth, their faces brushing together, their hands meeting, and it's, as always, the silence which is their answer.

And he lowers into her.

Instantly he's struck.

Natasha is surprisingly gentle, patient. Her eyes are soft; her grip on him loosens, her eyes close and she allows him to adjust. Steve kisses the corner of her lips. It hits him just how _fragile_ she is beneath him, that only the curve of her breast is what protects her heart. To think, _oh to think_, she could vanish with just one movement of a blade. He shudders, rolls forwards, and her hands slide down his chest.

They need time. He isn't practiced. She's too urgent.

A sharp intake of breath causes him to stop.

He's terrified he's hurt her.

Natasha knows he's humiliated, embarrassed; _he doesn't know how this works. It's been so long._

It's how it's always been. She leads him, and it's all he requires. They eventually find each other, his back on the cold floor, her thighs locking him between her, and they rock again, together, _finally together now_. He's sensitive and _young_, and he's never appeared more beautiful to her; _she's engulfed by him_. His angel-like face, blue eyes, blond hair, his innocence and uncertainty and she can't help but think –– _he deserves so much better_.

He's unlearned, and he doesn't last long.

But she expects as much.

_She doesn't care._

Natasha kisses his mouth, her hair falling over her shoulder, and she catches her breath first. Steve needs a second, but only a second. He raises himself into a sitting position, she straddling his hips, and they embrace one another. He kisses her cheek, her neck, holds her for all she is worth.

'_Please don't leave me._'

Those four words dig into her soul; a promise she can never keep.

It's enough for tears to mist over her eyes, for her heart to break.

For her to love him.

**.**

**.**

**.**


	6. VI

**.**

**.**

**.**

Pray  
><strong>6.<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

'Are you scared?'

She doesn't reply. Feels him move beside her, one arm around her bare waist.

What irritates her is that he knows. Of course.

Yeah.

Fuck. _Yes_, she's scared.

'Don't be,' Steve whispers, kisses her cheek, and the guilt strangles her.

He smiles.

Happy.

_Finally_.

'I love you.'

And it is _that_ which scares her.

**.**

**.**

**.**

The alcohol burns his throat.

Missing her is like an axe to the heart.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Several more months pass, and the last time he touched Natasha seems centuries ago. Either she is busy –– too many missions for someone so small. Or, she has fled –– and, this time, she might not come back. Steve never expected her to stay. Not after what happened between them. _Especially_ after what happened between them. But, he doesn't regret it, and hopes she doesn't either.

Waiting has never really been his expertise, though.

The shield drops from his aching hand. He pours himself a rum and coke, drinks the entire glass, then has another. Only drinks half. Cringes at the taste. Balances himself, placing a hand on the table, bowing his head, and tries to raise the glass to his lips.

The Avengers Tower is deserted.

Not that it matters.

He could be surrounded by millions of people, and still feel alone.

Damn it.

How much he _hates_ what she has done to him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

'No offence, Steve, but you two would make the worst couple.'

A year. Still no sign of her.

Sam invited Steve for drinks. It only took Steve an hour and two minutes to confess. He left out most details, but he made it abundantly clear that he has fallen too deep this time. Because she can be gone for years and years _and years_, and he will _never_ stop loving her.

It's cruel really.

And pathetic.

They _would_ make a terrible couple.

Doesn't change anything, though.

'Is she dead?'

Steve doesn't think so, but he asks Sam anyway, just to see his response. His friend smirks behind his glass. He considers Steve's question a joke. Natasha? Dead? Unlikely. _Impossible_. Steve smiles. Forced. He drinks. Inhales between his teeth and runs his finger over the rim of his glass.

Natasha isn't dead.

She's just _absent_.

'It's good to see you on your feet,' Sam remarks. He's trying to change the subject; trying to stay positive. He's glad Steve has recovered, but this whole Natasha thing is troublesome. He shouldn't underestimate Steve, though. He'll be okay. He always is.

'Thanks.'

Sam exhales. What's the point? Steve is oddly quiet, and it's obvious why. What's the point in avoiding the problem? He drums his fingers against the table, eyes his empty glass. Looks back at Steve, who's now propped himself on one elbow, staring at nothing.

He's a little lost.

Well. Sam chuckles. 'You love her.'

It's not a question.

Steve flicks his gaze up at him. Blinks. He has admitted this himself, _to her_, but hearing it from somebody else, hearing somebody else _confirm_ it –– Steve shudders. It's as if his body is slowly shutting down. Growing colder and colder. Emptier. _Bleaker_.

The silence is gently pushed aside. Sam speaks: 'That's okay. You know?'

**.**

**.**

**.**

3/6.

_We both know how this will end. _

_I've started asking around SHIELD. They're getting suspicious now._

_They're thinking: why does he care so much about her? _

_All I do is pray._

_Pray, pray, pray._

_Come back to me. _

_Come back to me._

**.**

**.**

**.**

The Avengers has dissolved. With each death and disappearance, it has _faded_. Steve is passed the stage of considering this a huge loss. He's used to working alone. It's fine and, if need be, he may join the other Avengers to offer a hand. Nothing's different. Nothing's changed. Not really.

After a week of reckless battles with _HYDRA_ and their attempts to hack into _SHIELD_'s security, Steve is sleep deprived and despite his almost indestructible body, he is achy and in need of rest. Even so, that same evening he doesn't head straight back to his apartment. He proceeds for the Avengers Tower, a place unused and forgotten. There are still a few things which have been left behind –– old computers, training equipment, stuff like that –– which he wants to be rid of, or tidy away.

He fills a couple of boxes. In the midst of clearing a desk scattered with old documents and photographs he hears something behind him.

A slight movement.

He peers over his shoulder.

Natasha is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, and she's watching the half-filled box in his hand.

She's dressed in black leggings, and a flannel shirt.

An attire he hasn't seen her wear before. She looks _retired_.

Steve isn't surprised to see her. It's about time, and, yes, he has waited for nearly two years, but he isn't surprised. He's able to compose himself and he allows her to speak first. He lets her observe what's going on, how different the Tower is, what's happening, why he's here.

'Spring cleaning?'

'Something like that.'

Natasha's hands fall to her sides. She straightens and comes closer, closer, then past him towards the desk. 'I'll help.'

It doesn't necessarily annoy him that she isn't getting to the real issue at hand. It just _upsets_ him. It makes him wonder if Natasha cares as much as he does –– _about them_. As they dump what they can into the box, he tries to catch a glimpse of her expression; tries to read her, but it's fruitless. She has to tell him what's going on, and he isn't sure if she will.

Eventually the desk is empty, except for a broken magnifying glass.

Steve reaches out for it, frowns. 'I've found some weird things here, but I don't remember any of us using a magnifying glass.' He flings the broken tool into the box, but his flingers slip a little, and the glass catches his skin. There's a faint clatter as the magnifying glass hits the box––

'Are you all right?'

Before he can respond, Natasha grabs his wrist and yanks his hand down for her to examine the damage.

Some blood trickles down his finger and he's about to suggest he find a tissue, but Natasha isn't letting his wrist go. Her eyes briefly lose focus, and, then, she looks up at him, still holding his wrist, allowing the blood to trickle down his finger onto the floor.

It's a _cut_.

Just a small, insignificant cut.

'I apologise.'

She releases him; her grip leaves a temporary mark. Natasha turns back to the table, remembers there's nothing left to pack, so turns away completely. Steve doesn't know what to do. Or say. They've both surprised each other, and he doesn't know how to comfort her. He wraps his sleeve around his finger to cease the bleeding. It doesn't hurt. It's nothing. And yet she acted as if his entire arm had been ripped off––

_Jesus Christ_.

She's pale all of a sudden. Very pale.

Because seeing his blood,_ his _blood, is enough to make her _retreat_. To make her panic, to _terrify_ her. It's so irrational and so stupid, and she hates this. She hates all of this. _I came back too soon. I'm not ready_. Oh, you silly, silly girl. This is Steve. He's an adult, he's _old_, and he can take care of himself. _He is not my responsibility_. But every tiny action he makes, every word he utters, _every breath which passes his chapped, sweet lips is now **her** responsibility_. She owes him too much.

Natasha struggles to become _stable_. Her fingertips graze across the dusty table, and she walks forward, _but she's concentrating too hard on the beat of her heart, how her pulse is racing, how she can barely catch her breath_, that she doesn't even notice the table leg. Her foot slams into the wood, and she doesn't allow herself enough time to regain her balance.

Instead she tumbles forwards, but the floor doesn't reach her. _He saves her fall_. One strong arm wraps around her, and a hand pulls at her shirt; she's yanked back, and her back meets his chest. His bloody hand has slipped through his sleeve and is now clutching onto hers.

There's no escape.

They have trapped each other.

His blood on her hand, _his fingers delicately squeezing hers_, must be some beautiful punishment.

'I abandoned you.'

Her voice is a mere reflection of itself. It _breaks_.

Poor Steve is too much of a gentleman, of an angel, to admit her fault. He can't _bear_ the idea of blaming her. He loves her too deeply.

'No,' he whispers, and he turns her around to face him properly. He's shaking his head, like a child, desperate to run away from trouble. 'No, don't––'

'I've made a mess of you.'

He is her failure. _She has failed him_.

_She has failed __**herself**_.

Natasha Romanoff does not _flee_ at the sight of _blood_.

How can love be such a venomous beast?

Now, _now_, he _is_ desperate. His wounded hand _clings_ to her wrist, his other finding her shirt, pulling her to him, and he _has_ to prove her wrong somehow, _convince her somehow_ that she has _saved_ him. Natasha battles against him –– _as always_. She resists his touch. She _pulls_ from his grasp, but he is far stronger, and he _has_ to keep her with him, here, if only for a few more minutes.

Has to let her know the God honest _truth_.

Even if it destroys them both.

'You have done no such thing––'

'If we never met––'

'_I wouldn't __**be**__ here_.'

He is not like the others. He isn't running away. He isn't turning to something more interesting. He hasn't moved on. _He hasn't replaced her_. Steve loves her like nobody ever has –– _his love is fixed, certain and absolute_. He loves her for everything she is, and she _just isn't used to this_.

He loves her enough to _wait_ for her; to be rid of her countless debts.

Without knowing, she has cured him –– _she has healed him_, and he owes her his heart. He _willingly_ gives it to her, and he's such, such a _fool_. Such a wonderful, innocent, _young_ fool.

Steve brushes a strand of her hair from her face.

A smile reaches his lips, and it's a small smile, soft and loving. 'Nat.' She makes the mistake of glancing at his eyes, watery and fragile, but filled with hope.

Natasha has nothing to say. She loves him. It's the only logic she has left.

_He_ is all she has left.

So when both of her blades clatter to the cold ground, and she lifts herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him, it all falls into place.

* * *

><p><em>be my friend<em>

_hold me, wrap me up_

_unfold me_

* * *

><p>end.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>author's note<strong>: When it comes to this ship, I see no definite finale. Who knows what will happen next? I have decided to leave that up to you readers, but it sure is nice to think Steve and Natasha decided to stay together. I pretty much implied this in the last line.

This story is a short one, but I felt it matched the theme and atmosphere of what was happening. I really hope you all enjoyed it, and that it wasn't _too_ angsty for you. I would certainly love to write more on these two –– they're a charm to write about and so interesting. Their dynamic is beautiful, complex and yet soft. I really have no idea how else to describe them.

Lyrics at the end are from the song _Breathe Me_ by Sia. I pretty much listened to that song throughout the majority of this fic.

Please leave a review, and a _huge_ thank you to everybody who has supported me with this story! Until next time.


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